


Goodnight, Moon

by DetectiveRoboRyan



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Death, F/F, Femslash, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Major Character Death (She Got Better), Platonic Cuddling, not-so-platonic cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 00:10:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19239892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveRoboRyan/pseuds/DetectiveRoboRyan
Summary: Eir, Laegjarn, and learning to love.





	Goodnight, Moon

**Author's Note:**

> so i finished the chapter of feh where they reveal That (tm) about eir's backstory and can i just say i would fucking die for eir
> 
> anyway i wrote this in like a day so have fun

Death arrives with the moonlight.  
  
That's Laegjarn's first thought, anyway. She's hardly alone in thinking this, at least until she's corrected— Eir is not death, because that honor belongs to her mother. But they do call her Merciful Death, and Laegjarn often finds herself idly wondering why.  
  
It's not a surprise that they call her that. They say that she's mortal, but you could've fooled Laegjarn. She reminds Laegjarn of a black inkstain on a lace handkerchief, of shattered glass on dark marble tile, of cobwebs in corners, of the strained plinking of music box notes in a minor key. Like something living, but all the color's been drawn out of it, leaving a shadow— a ghost, a wraith in the shape of a girl.  
  
She recognizes her, almost— she couldn't recall any details, but it doesn't surprise her that Eir is familiar. Because she died, and this, she knows for certain, even if she's forgotten any detail about what happened.  
  
( _Living minds are not meant to know the secrets of Death_ , Eir had said, on one of those occasions she and Laegjarn spoke, and Laegjarn had mentioned her experience. _It is supposed to be the ultimate finality— the end of all suffering and pain. A mercy_.)  
  
(Merciful Death is a poetic title, Laegjarn supposes, but only in its cruelty.)  
  
They often meet in the gardens. Laegjarn isn't surprised to find Eir there— it only seems fitting to find Eir among delicate things— but she can never quite find a concrete justification for why she seems to linger there in the spare minutes she has. Maybe she doesn't need to.  
  
"I like the quiet," she says, when Eir asks.  
  
Eir hums. She says nothing else, but she seems to accept that as an answer. Framed in lush greens and veined marble, she looks even paler, even wispier, as if it's an effort to keep herself tangible and if she loses focus, the air itself could pull her into a million tiny pieces.  
  
"People don't come back from the dead," Laegjarn says.  
  
"Yes," Eir agrees.  
  
"Why did I?"  
  
That gives her pause for thought. She has her hands clasped loosely, one thumb idly rubbing the nail of the other. She's not wearing her gloves. Laegjarn can see dusky violet veins lain out beneath her skin. She wonders if there's any blood running through them or if they're just for show.  
  
"We may never know," she says. "You did not deserve to die there, but that is not for me to decide."  
  
Laegjarn sighs. "Every time I try to pursue that line of questioning, I always end up back where I started. Perhaps it's silly to even try. People search their whole lives for the reason they're alive, after all, and most never find it."  
  
"Such is the way things are," Eir says.  
  
"You must be fun at parties," Laegjarn replies.  
  
Eir smiles at her, but like everything she does, it's forlorn, sorrowful. Even her lips are pale, just a faint shade more purple than the greyish skin that surrounds them. Her eyes are dark both in color and in spirit.  
  
"Death is hardly fun, Princess Laegjarn," she says.  
  
"I would never expect it to be," Laegjarn replies. "You don't need to call me princess. It's not like it matters here."  
  
"True enough." Eir hums, looking back to the flowers. They sway in the late evening breeze. The sun has mostly set; long blue shadows fall over the courtyard, painting one side of everything in stark relief to what the orange torchlight illuminates. There is color when Laegjarn looks at her, but while it would highlight anyone else, for Eir it only says again that she is only barely alive.  
  
Laegjarn nods to her and mumbles a quiet good night, and Eir watches her go, but when Laegjarn is just about to enter the halls again, Eir has looked back to the garden.  
  
The Order of Heroes is a place of friendship, of collaboration, of connection— heroes from all different lands bringing all the knowledge that their timelines carry, and learning from each other in ways that surprise at every turn. They glow in flickering gold that dances at the corners of Laegjarn's vision, marking them as Heroes, summoned at the altar from that strange thing their summoner carries. The Heroes are strange creatures that Laegjarn often observes idly; frozen in time, unchanging, undying, free from the physical reprecussions of their actions that would permanently cripple or kill someone from the realm of Zenith. Laegjarn has no such luxury, even brought back from the dead as she is.  
  
The Heroes are fond of parties. It often feels as if a different one happens every other day, somewhere or another. Often, they're bacchanals of reckless debauchery, filled with unashamed physical euphoria and drunken foolishness that the Heroes can only indulge in because of the magic of Zenith that makes it possible. While Laegjarn has been known to enjoy a quiet mug of ale or glass of wine with a few others that she's found good company, the celebrations that the Heroes are fond of aren't really her scene. (Princess Sharena, who attends every one, has told her that this is a wise choice, considering what she's experienced at these nights of merriment, and told Laegjarn that if she ever did choose to partake, she ought to avoid drunken strip darts, lest she need a very embarrassing visit to the infirmary.)  
  
But there are quieter ones as well— usually when Queen Henrietta comes to check on the Order's progress, so everyone needs to at least pretend to be professional. Laegjarn is typically in attendance at these. Eir is at this one, because Princess Sharena told her that the queen wants to meet her. She makes herself scarce as soon as she can slip away.  
  
It's not any of Laegjarn's business, but she looks for Eir anyway. Maybe it's a desire to take a breather from the dress uniforms and professionality, or maybe it's because she wants to make sure that Eir hasn't been pulled apart like ash in the wind.  
  
She's in the garden. She's in a borrowed gown for the formal event— blue and gold, probably one of Princess Sharena's, since they're roughly the same size— and the colors look garish and loud next to the white of her skin, the purple of her veins, the silver of her hair. Laegjarn has been to more formal royal events than she can count (even Surtur had to observe some formalities) and knows the proper way to talk to a woman, but she can't tell Eir she looks beautiful without both of them knowing she's lying.  
  
Eir is not ugly, or anything like that. But she is strange, haunting, unsettling— she looks fragile as spun glass, wreathed in chill that Laegjarn's heat would burn in an instant. _Beautiful_ is not the word that Laegjarn can use and feel right about.  
  
"It's you," Eir says, turning to look at Laegjarn.  
  
Laegjarn nods her head, a little awkwardly. "Good evening," she says. "You… it's good to see you out and about. I was worried you may be lonely, in this big place."  
  
"Lonely?" The ghost of a smile traces Eir's lips— the same sad smile that's written itself into Laegjarn's mind like etchings in stone. It feels as if she's telling Laegjarn she's cute for being concerned, but her efforts are ultimately futile. "No, I could never be. The opposite, in fact. There is so much life, life of all kinds, that I get… overwhelmed."  
  
"Ah." Laegjarn suddenly feels foolish for chasing after her. "Shall I leave you?"  
  
"I don't mind," Eir replies. "I find that it gets more bearable as time goes on, as I learn of the people behind the lives. The familiarity is… comforting, in some sense of the word."  
  
"Still, if you need to be alone, just tell me," Laegjarn insists. She tugs at her uniform jacket (Laegjarn has never been fond of dessses; too easy to hide things in, too heavy and billowy to run or fight if need be). "I understand how… much the Order of Heroes can be if you're not used to it. It took me a while, too."  
  
Eir hums. "I would request that you stay, if it pleases you," she says. "Could you come closer?"  
  
Laegjarn does.  
  
"Closer."  
  
Laegjarn does, until they're side by side and Laegjarn feels the chill emmanating from Eir in a constant hum. It's not a chill like those from the Nifl family, the chill of snow flurries and wind over a frozen lake— no, the chill from Eir reminds Laegjarn more of the cold of stillness, of absence, of bodies yet to be cremated in the fires of Muspell's volcanoes. It's a very memorable kind of chill, when one is used to the ever-present heat of magma.  
  
It's quiet. Laegjarn shifts idly, wishing she knew what to say. How does one talk to a girl who's died a thousand times at the hands of the one who was supposed to care for her? She supposes they have something in common at dying for a parent who didn't care, but Laegjarn doesn't particularly want to talk about that. How would she even start? _Hey, I had a shitty parent, too? Wanna trade horror stories? That sure was fucked up that that happened, huh?_ Probably a bad idea.  
  
"It's very tiring, being alive," Eir murmurs. "They say that death is easy. I would disagree, but I'm realizing now that what I had before was hardly living. This, being here, surrounded by people who move and feel and love— that's living."  
  
Laegjarn doesn't quite know what to say to that, either. "So where do you fit in?" she asks.  
  
Eir shrugs. "I don't think anyone knows that."  
  
"You're very wise," Laegjarn says. "Where would you like to fit in?"  
  
Eir considers this. She looks at the foliage, watching it sway. The sun is setting over the castle walls. In the orange light, her silver hair looks amber. It's a lovely color, but perhaps it's the overall desaturation of her form that makes it dissonant, like a smokescreen covering up the wraith below. Laegjarn is no artist, but even she knows what colors mean.  
  
"I don't know," Eir says. "But I like it next to you."  
  
"You do?" Laegjarn hadn't been expecting that.  
  
"You're warm," Eir says. "And it's strange— I don't remember ever feeling warm before, but I'm not afraid of it. Perhaps there was a time I knew warmth and life and love, and I've just forgotten."  
  
Laegjarn supposes that makes sense. "Well," she says, holding out her hand. "You're welcome to stay by me as long as you like."  
  
With both of her thin, pale hands, Eir reaches out and takes Laegjarn's. Her skin is cool to the touch, which isn't surprising, but what surprises Laegjarn now that she can see it more closely is just how thin it really is— and it's soft when Laegjarn touches it, like the skin of a newborn. When Eir brings Laegjarn's hand to her face, she feels blood rushing beneath the surface, and a pulse, quick and shallow, proving that despite everything, Eir is alive.  
  
Eir shuts her eyes, pressing Laegjarn's hand to her cheek. She pulls her shoulders inwards as if she's trying to trap the heat that Laegjarn gives. Eir is cold, but it doesn't bother Laegjarn. She would gladly weather cold to rival the harshest blizzards that Nifl has to offer if it means Eir experiences warmth for once in her life.  
  
"You're warm," Eir murmurs.  
  
"I don't burn you?" Laegjarn asks.  
  
Eir shakes her head. "It's wonderful."  
  
"Well, then," Laegjarn says. "You're welcome to come to me any time you feel cold."  
  
So Eir does, and days go by of Eir leaning into Laegjarn's warmth. The contact grows as Eir grows used to her and craves more, and Laegjarn lets her come as close as she needs to to feel warm. They go from embraces in the garden to sitting close on the common room couches to Eir quite literally joining her in bed. Not that Laegjarn minds at all, but she wonders how Eir can do that without questioning anything about it.  
  
Eir always holds close, tucking herself into every empty crevice that Laegjarn's shape provides, seeking every hint of warmth that she can get like she's trying to make up for a lifetime of loneliness and isolation. She sinks into Laegjarn's every touch, pulls her hands closer whenever Laegjarn hesitates. Laegjarn grows to find comfort in the flutter of a pulse that she feels through every inch of her, just because of its familiarity.  
  
"You know," Laegjarn murmurs, as Eir burrows into the bedcovers until just the top of her head is visible, tucked under Laegjarn's chin. "People think we're lovers."  
  
Eir looks up. "Why?" she asks.  
  
"This is the sort of thing lovers do," Laegjarn says. "Holding each other. Sharing beds."  
  
"Oh." Eir shifts, setting her head back down. Her hair is loose, spilling over the bedsheets like moonlight. "I didn't… I've never…"  
  
"Never had a lover?" Laegjarn guesses.  
  
Eir nods. "Mother didn't love me," she murmurs. "And I never knew anyone but her for the longest time."  
  
"Oh." That settles like a horribly sad weight on Laegjarn's chest— far heavier than Eir herself could ever be. She rolls words around in her head for a while, trying to figure out what to even say to that. Eir often leaves her at a loss for words, and not usually in a good way.  
  
"What else do lovers do?" Eir asks.  
  
Laegjarn racks her brain for things she's read in novels. "Kissing," she says. "Going places together. Telling each other 'I love you.' That kind of thing."  
  
Eir nods intently. "What else?"  
  
"Well…" Laegjarn's cheeks heat up. She's not ready for this discussion. "Don't worry about that for now."  
  
"Alright." Eir agrees, and Laegjarn, briefly, feels relieved. Then she speaks again and that relief evaporates. "What does kissing involve?"  
  
"It's… hard to explain," Laegjarn admits.  
  
"Then show me."  
  
Laegjarn shakes her head. "I can't do that. It isn't right."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"You don't know what you're getting into. You don't know any of this. It would be wrong of me to take advantage of you like that."  
  
Eir frowns. "I don't think it's taking advantage if I'm asking."  
  
She has a fair point. Laegjarn doesn't answer her.  
  
"I want to know," Eir says. "I want to know what it's like to love, and there's no one I trust more than you to be the one to show me. Teach me." She reaches out and cups Laegjarn's cheeks. "Teach me how to love."  
  
Laegjarn bites at her lip. "Well," she says. "Alright. But if you don't like it, you tell me right away, and I'll stop."  
  
"I understand."  
  
Laegjarn looks at her lips. She feels her already-flushed face grow hotter. Baby steps, Laegjarn, baby steps. So instead, she takes Eir's hand and presses a kiss to her palm.  
  
"There are lots of ways to kiss," she says. "That's one." She kisses Eir's wrist. "That's another." She steels herself and moves closer, until her lips brush Eir's cheek. "There's a third. Sometimes you'll see people kiss like that even when they're not lovers."  
  
She looks at Eir, watching carefully for signs of distress. She can't see any, but she can feel Eir's already-quick pulse pick up.  
  
"Oh," Eir murmurs.  
  
"Do you like it?" Laegjarn asks.  
  
Eir nods. A pale flush colors her cheeks. "Can you keep going?"  
  
"Of course."

Laegjarn kisses her jaw, her chin, her neck, her shoulder. Eir's hands find her hair. She feels Eir's fingers over her scalp, and she shivers. 

"Is this alright?" Eir murmurs. Laegjarn hums assent into her skin. She never thought skin so cold could be so welcoming. 

Laegjarn looks up. Eir's flushed, or as flushed as half-alive skin can be, and something in Laegjarn's chest tugs almost painfully with a desire to kiss her. 

"And sometimes," she says hoarsely. "People will kiss like this." She leans in and presses her lips to Eir's, for just a second. Eir breathes, reaching up to touch her lips. 

"That was just a taste," Laegjarn says. "Was that alright? Do you want to stop?"

"No," Eir says. She sucks in a gulp of air. "No, don't stop. Please."

"Do you want to try again?" Laegjarn asks. Eir nods. They kiss again, and this time, Eir mimics it. She does it slowly, with little motion. When she pulls away, she rests her forehead on Laegjarn's, and she feels her breath. It's surprisingly warm, for how cold the rest of her is. Laegjarn had never thought there'd be a day when cold would be welcoming and kind.

"Kissing is... nice," Eir murmurs. 

"I like to think so," Laegjarn agrees. "Are you alright?"

Eir nods. "What else do lovers do?" 

"Well, basically what we've been doing, but with more kisses," Laegjarn admits. "Why?"

"I was just thinking," Eir says. "That I'm glad it's you."

Laegjarn blinks. "For what?"

"That you're the one teaching me what love is," Eir says. "If this is love, if this is being lovers, then— then I don't want to feel without it anymore. It's warm, and kind, like you."

A flush creeps back into Laegjarn's cheeks. "Well, I'm glad that it makes you happy," she says.

Eir nods. "Could you kiss me again?" she asks.

And Laegjarn does.


End file.
